


Happy Halloween

by somekindofseizure



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Halloween, MSR, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofseizure/pseuds/somekindofseizure
Summary: Mulder wants Scully to have a better attitude about his favorite holiday.  (Also, satisfying a prompt for the phrase, "Okay, so it was me, so?")





	

 

******

She sulks straight through dinner. It is one of their first fights as a couple but he’s known her long enough to know when he’s being punished. It’s a subtle sulk, a finely calibrated system of throat noises and avoided glances, sentences tweaked abruptly at the ends, periods shorting out conversations like damp fuses. _It’s Halloween,_ he wants to scream, his favorite holiday. 

She knows this weakness puts him at a disadvantage. He thinks of the night ahead, his plans for scary movies and handing out candy, and he breaks, soft and crispy as a Kit Kat Bar.

“Okay, fine, it was me. So?”

She finishes twirling her spaghetti and slurps it, finally making eye contact with him beneath two smugly arched eyebrows.

“You ruined three autopsies.”

“It was a gag.”

“I’ll have to do everything I did today again tomorrow.” 

“I just thought if some things went missing, just a few aberrations…”

“You could get me to believe in ghosts.” 

“It’s Halloween, Scully! Why do you refuse to see the fun in this?” 

“I could have seen the fun once, maybe. One missing bottle of formaldehyde. One body switched for another. One temperature control turning itself on and off. Any one of these ridiculous things.” 

“You’re being a party pooper. And you’re ruining my favorite holiday.” 

“You sound like a child.”

“Fine,” he says and picks up his plate, dumping it loudly in the sink. “I’ll go wait for the doorbell to ring alone and hang out with the other children.” 

“I told you, trick or treaters don’t come here,” she says as he shuffles toward her living room. And for a while, he worries she’s right. She has lived here for years, after all.

He flicks through network TV, one classic horror film after another skipping by, and anxiously eyes the basket of wrapped candy by the door. He hears her run a bath and rolls his eyes. Baths can be taken any day, there is nothing spooky and scary about them… _unless_ , he thinks as he dallies with fantasies of _Psycho_ … No, she would literally shoot him if he scared her in a bathtub.

And then, the doorbell rings. In the course of a half hour, there are three witches, a Power Ranger and a zombie. He bounces to the door each time, nodding at the parents and holding the basket out for the little hands – vinyl-gloved, green with makeup, or red from the crisp cold outside the apartment building – rummage through crinkly wrappers like there’s gold at the bottom of the Three Musketeers and Snickers.

 _So there_ , he thinks. She doesn’t know everything, not on Halloween, not on his holiday.

 _“Mulder,”_ she calls with sharp demand. What did he do now?

“What?” he answers without moving. 

“I forgot a towel!” 

“In here,” she says, and this time there is more kindness in her voice, more forgetfulness of the tense dinner they suffered through. He pauses to brace himself, shoulders haunched, jaw clenched. Just because she’s not angry anymore doesn’t mean he has to be over it too.

“You know, I’m not exactly in the mood to do you favors,” he says as he waits by the door. She has ruined his favorite day of the year, after all. She resisted any attempt to see the joy he tried to bring to it, she rolled her eyes when he came out of the drugstore with a bagful of candy, she has not so much as said Happy Halloween and she… 

She is standing next to the bed in a leopard bodysuit, spots from wrist to ankle putting the freckles on her chest to shame. There are soft matching ears parting her hair, a matching tail twirling in her fingers as she walks toward him with a high-heeled jungle saunter.

“How’s your mood now?” she purrs, body pressing lightly against him. He slides a hand round her waist, velvety spandex of the costume prickly between his fingers. 

“It’s better,” he mumbles. Every thought, every drop of resentment has been replaced by its own skin-tight black and orange spot. He moves his hand over her bare skin – there’s a dip in the back – and into her hair, wavy and predator red around her headband. She paws at his lip with a curled hand, but then pushes him away with a growly cat sound. 

“I didn’t know you could make that sound,” he says.

“There are a lot of sounds you haven’t heard me make yet.”

She walks past, dragging the toe of her shoe a little with each step, smoothing the tail at her side. 

“Don’t you want to… um?” he stammers, miserable to be leaving the bedroom but following two paces behind, a hand patting his throbbing erection while she has her back turned. 

“Maybe later,” she says, dipping a glance back over her shoulder. She’s wearing thick, black eyeliner, winged at the sides, but her mouth is naked and raw. “First we have to watch movies and give out candy.”

He groans as she pats the couch beside her. There’s no way he can wait two hours. She pushes him to lie down and he puts a knee up to hide the tenting of his sweatpants.

“I feel so underdressed,” he jokes, feeling like a nervous teenager, and she grins, pushing his knee down and crawling on all fours toward him, one leg between his. She lies down on his chest, propping her face in her hand. Her breasts press into his body, plump caps of human creaminess over the rounded edge of feline fur, and she reaches for the remote.

“Aren’t you going to pet me?” she asks and he of course obliges, smoothing his hand over the small of her back over and over until she raises the kitten curve of her ass, inviting his attention. He extends his touch there, watching as she pretends to focus on whatever movie she’s now landed on, but he’s currently in his own little horror film, one about a man absolutely losing his mind with lust and frustration. He grabs the flesh of her bottom, scooting her forward so she can feel his hard-on where she generally likes to. She hums, looks at his eyes, his lips, and he thinks he’s got her. But then, that infernal doorbell, a sound he so welcomed just minutes ago.

“Better get the door, Mulder,” she says with a grin, and then with a faked frown, she reaches down to fondle him over his jeans. “Too bad about the timing.”

“You arranged these trick or treaters, didn’t you?”

 She shrugs one shoulder and her cleavage shifts and seems to double.

 “You know I can’t get the door like this. I’ll get arrested.”

“You’re right. I’ll do it.” And she crawls backward off him, slipping her feet back into her shoes. He stares at the back of her as the tittering of compliments, the rustle of wrappers begins. And as if she knows, because she knows everything, she folds her right hand up between her shoulders and reaches for the zipper, slowly moving it down her lower spine.

“Happy Halloween,” he hears her tell the trick or treaters as the zipper dangles over the crack of her ass. He gets up with quiet feet, tiptoeing up behind her, slipping his hands inside the parted fabric as she closes the door and rests her hand on it.

“Happy Halloween,” he says into her ear as he moves around in the suit, positioning himself. “I want to hear the rest of the sounds you can make now.” And maybe because it’s his favorite day of the year, she begins to make them.

  

 


End file.
